


The Cold Child

by Carmexgirl



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmexgirl/pseuds/Carmexgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of an uncle leads to a visit to the mysterious and desolate Wildwood.  But what horrors lie within?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold Child

The news came through on a Saturday that my Uncle Victor had died. It was not a particular shock, given that the old man had seemed intent on drinking himself to death. Indeed, that he had lasted till the age of sixty-eight was a miracle within itself. We were not close, given the only contact I had with him had been at the occasional family gathering. He would sit in the chair furthest from the crowd, gnarled hand curled around a whiskey glass as though it had grown that way to fit, snorting and coughing at no one in particular. A cursory 'Hello' was all he would ever give me before he continued sipping and grunting, a high pitched whistling coming from his throat as his lungs struggled with the simple task of merely breathing.

I was told on numerous occasions that I was to respect Victor; that he was rich, and one day could make my future if I were to give a good impression. Of course, being the youngest of three amidst a sea of cousins and second cousins all vying for his attention, this was a near impossible task. I gave up early, content to watch the others fawning over this grotesque beast of a man in the hope he may enhance their pitiful lives. What a waste of time, I thought, if it were to be revealed he is as poor as the rest of us. As I grew older, and time moved on, I began to see him less and less; the family gatherings became few and far between and for that I was glad, until eventually they stopped all together.

With the news of the death my mother was fairly distraught. Despite his grotesque nature, Victor had been her brother after all and no matter what she or anyone else thought of him, family was family. We gathered that evening at my Aunt Imelda's house, going though the details of the funeral. It appeared the old man had everything planned out in meticulous detail, and we were to follow them to the letter. He had no family of his own, having been divorced some 20 years previously, which left the barrage of aunts, cousins and associated hangers-on to sort out the details. I learned the wake would take place at his former home, a large stately home by the name of 'Wildwood' some sixty miles away. It would have to be an overnight stay for the majority of my family, although Imelda cheerily announced that no cost would be incurred, as the house was big enough to accommodate all of us.

I admit I was excited; A relative of mine living in a stately home, albeit crumbling to dust or so I had heard, but a stately home nonetheless. I wondered why my mother had never mentioned it. They had not been well off as children, and from what I understood my uncle was a self-made millionaire in the technology business, though what he did I had no idea and was never inclined to ask. Apparently when he was younger he was an astute businessman with a great many friends, however reconciling that with the bitter, twisted and isolated man I knew was difficult. There were whisperings too of some tragedy that led him into a downward spiral of drink, although what it was I never knew, and wasn't inclined to find out.

Anyway, it happened that two weeks after my uncle's demise (and I never did find out how or why he died, reasoning that years of alcohol abuse had finally taken their toll) we travelled to Wildwood. I slept most of the way, having been quite ill with sickness the night before. I was incredibly tired, and unable to hold anything more than bread and water, with anything stronger bringing the sickness back almost instantaneously.

Wildwood was exactly as I had imagined; a gated driveway with unkempt trees on either side wound its way around the estate until eventually the scenery opened up, and we were confronted with a large, grey building. It was fairly weather-beaten, with the stone along the corners having eroded away, coloured black after exposure to the elements. The house faced west, meaning it was in shade for the majority of the day, and on the side I could see clumps of moss clinging to the stone, while the wooden window frames were swollen and black with damp and mould. Adorning the toppermost corners were four statues on men on horseback. Though eroded by years of wind and rain, I could still make out a few elements of the statue closets to me—a bony figure holding a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other. The others must have been Famine, War and Pestilence, although most of their features were too worn away to be sure. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of such macabre adornments.

I found Wildwood utterly fascinating to behold. A stately home in decay, having stood for hundreds of years against the elements only to be left to ruin by an old drunk. Fully restored, it would have been glorious; as it was, it stood exposed to the wind that whipped around the building and the rain that would almost certainly beat down on it in the depths of winter, dilapidated and decaying. A quick look to the gardens revealed them to be overgrown, full weeds and vines that wrapped around the trees, choking them with their grip and pulling them into grotesque shapes.

We entered through the main hallway, placing our bags on the thread worn carpet while Imelda and my mother discussed sleeping arrangements. There were ten bedrooms in all, with another 5 at the very top of the house for servants. I was fortunate enough to have a room to myself—we were the last to be considered when it came to accommodation, and as everywhere else had already been allocated, my brother, sister and I were to sleep in the east wing with a room each. I was told by Imelda that this part of the house had been shut off until recently; the upkeep of the house had fallen by the wayside, and Victor had become increasingly enclosed, using only a few essential rooms to keep costs to a minimum. The east wing was the coldest part of the house, and so was the first to be shut off. She assured me there wouldn't be a problem with heating, as they had turned everything on that morning to ensure the whole house would be sufficiently warm for the guests. Despite having more questions, we were quickly ushered away so other guests could be dealt with. The funeral was to take place at 4pm, and everyone needed to be ready in good time.

After being led up numerous flights of stairs, I was presented with my room. It was adjacent to another set of stairs leading up to some more rooms. I was told in the past they were used as rest rooms for the servants of the house, although they had been out of use for a while and were permanently shut. I stared up the staircase, which seemed to get narrower and narrower until it disappeared into blackness, and took in a lungful of damp, musty air. As soon as the air hit the back of my throat, I started choking, desperately pulling a bottle of water out of my pocket and taking huge sips. I could only hope my bedroom was better.

I turned the handle to my room, and opened the door. It had a slight musty smell, and an inspection of the windows saw black mould around the wooden panes, but apart from that, it was habitable. The window had been left open to air the room out, making the room cold. The ancient heating system was barely warm to the touch, but I figured as soon as I slipped into bed, I would be warm enough given I was still running a high temperature. The room itself was a fair size; enough to hold a queen size bed and chest of drawers, an armchair and in the far corner, an old wooden rocking horse. The beast in its prime would have been magnificent; as it was, the paint had faded and flaked away in patched, it was missing an eye, and its jaw was half hanging off. I mentally named him 'Victor,' thinking it a fitting tribute to them man himself.

The funeral went entirely as expected. Aunt Imelda read a poem by some dire modern author musing on death, while another aunt, Victoria, sang an awfully flat version of 'Amazing Grace.' We committed the coffin to the earth, and all shuffled back to the house. There, I watched my relatives eat a disappointing looking buffet, while I managed to sequester myself in a corner out of the way of everyone, sipping gingerly on a glass of orange juice which was all my stomach could handle. I looked on as they reminisced about old Victor, feeling more and more nauseous as the evening wore on. Finally as the imposing grandfather clock in the corner struck ten, I had had enough. I said my goodbyes, and left for bed.

Shivering as I walked up the stairs, I pulled my cardigan tight around my shoulders, wanting desperately to go to bed and curl up in warmth. This part of the house was definitely colder than where I had just been, and it seemed to get noticeably cooler the more steps I ascended. The lights seemed to grow dimmer—the ancient cables struggling to conduct the amount of power needed to illuminate the lamps fully, leaving everything with that horrible yellow light that does not seem to spread further than a few centimetres beyond the lamp. As I climbed the second flight of stairs, the lights flickered quickly, giving off a faint crackling noise as they did so. I thought they would give out any moment, but they remained, still shining on and off. It was then I thought I heard someone following me, a regular creaking noise that sounded like it was coming up the stairs, closer and closer. In my weakened state I will admit I was uneasy, but managed to reason that due to having some semblance of heat for the first time in years, the wood in the stairs would have contracted as the damp dried, and now, after being stepped upon, they were merely settling down again.

The third flight of stairs was difficult, and I found myself labouring under the effort. A day without any substantial food, coupled with a tiring journey and an hour standing in the cold next to an open grave had rendered me very weak. With each step, my legs seemed to get heavier and heavier until finally, ascending the last four steps to my room had my legs feeling as though they were made of concrete. It was dark, save for the one very dim light attached to the wall outside my door. It barely gave out enough light for me to see the door handle, and I fumbled around in the dark, an overwhelming sense of urgency coming over me as I desperately turned it to open the door. I had the strangest feeling that someone was behind me, as though any second a strong hand would grip me on the shoulder and turn me forcefully around. I pulled frantically at the handle, not wanted to look behind me for fear of what I might see. Finally, the door opened and I ran inside, shutting it firmly behind me.

I stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily. I heard nothing outside, no footsteps, no breathing, nothing. I shrugged to myself, reasoning that tiredness was making my mind play tricks on me. I leant over to flick the light switch on the wall, cursing under my breath when nothing happened. It seemed as though the lights had completely given out, so the only solution was to leave the curtains open and the moonlight stream in to illuminate the room. I fumbled around in the dark for my night dress, and got undressed quickly. Slipping into bed, which was thankfully warm and fairly comfortable, I closed my eyes and hoped the night would pass quickly, bringing the morning where I could leave this place for good.

I fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning under the bedclothes. The temperature in the room was not constant; one minute it was stiflingly hot, the next unbearably cold, leading me to keep throwing the bedclothes off myself, before gathering up when it went cold again. It was after such an episode that I first heard it, the noise coming from outside my room.

I'll estimate it was around 1am, given that the rest of the house was silent as the occupants were all sleeping. I lay staring at the ceiling, tracing a large crack from one side of the room to the other, listening to my own breathing in an attempt to lull me to sleep. It was then that I heard it, a faint thump coming from outside. I at first thought it may have been one of my relatives, lost on their way to the bathroom amongst the myriad of corridors. However as I listened, the thump gradually increased in volume, and seemed to get closer, closer to my door. I sat up, craning my head to listen to what it could be. It sounded heavy, incredibly heavy, and seemed to be coming nearer to my bedroom. As the noise became louder, I fancied I heard another noise to accompany it, a sort of sliding material sound, as though something heavy were being dragged over bare wood. Like something heaving was being dragged down stairs. A dead weight, pulled and making a regular thump, thump as it passed each step in turn.

Again the noise got louder and louder until I fancied it was right outside my bedroom door. There it stopped. I sat stock still for a minute or so, not daring to make any movement, not wanting to alert whatever it was to my presence. The air in the room became unbearably cold, then, and I finally breathed out, watching as a cloud of moisture glittered in the moonlight shining through the window. There was a faint noise outside, like someone or something was shuffling, and I could only watch in horror as the handle on my door turned slowly, first one way, then the other.

I whispered to whoever please, please don't let them come in, as the handle turned once more. The door rattled, like someone wanted entrance, and I stared quickly to the window. It was no use—I was on the third floor and could not possibly get away as the height was too great. So I sat there, paralysed and hoping against hope that the temperamental door would prove too much to whatever entity was on the other side. The door rattled again, before stilling suddenly. I held my breath, and listened intently as the dragging noise started again, this time moving away from my door. Presently the regular thumping sounded, as though the thing being dragged had started the descent on the second flight of stairs, eventually fading away to nothing.

I closed my eyes in relief, hopeful that whatever it was had bypassed my room and would not be returning. Five more hours and it would be light and I could leave. Five more hours. I closed my eyes and sighed in relief, bedding down once more.

I surprised myself, in that I managed to sleep for an hour before waking again, shivering uncontrollably. The cold was bitter, permeating every part of my body. I turned towards the window, looking out into the night sky at the moon. As I stared, something on the glass caught my eye. Ice. Ice was forming on the inside of the glass, and before my very eyes I watched as small crystals formed and cracked along the window pane. I breathed out, seeing my own breath before my eyes once more, only this time it seemed to hang in the air, freezing as soon as it left the confines of my mouth. I turned my eyes from the window and focused on the room. That's when I saw it.

I never saw its face clearly. Out of everything I remember, the one thing I can't picture is its face. The figure as all in black, and it stood by the door to my room. It did nothing for a few moments, just stood there serenely. It was about the size and build of a child around seven years old, wearing a long, black, hooded cloak that formed a peak at the top of the head. I sat there paralysed in dread, not wanting to move for fear of disturbing it. I held my breath, not even wanting to breathe, and trying desperately not to shiver despite the bitter coldness that pervaded the room. I glanced to the window, to see it had iced over completely. The moon shone through, the light broken up by thousands of ice crystals that thickened and cracked before my eyes. I breathed in, and the choking cold hit the back of my throat causing me to cough once before I stopped myself.

I glanced back to the figure, and recoiled in terror. The thing was now standing at the bottom of my bed. I jumped involuntarily; I had not heard anything, no footsteps, no breathing nothing. Still the creature was silent, still it didn't seem to move, instead watching me with an evil eye I could not see but instinctively knew was there. I became paralysed, rooted to the spot in the bed, skin and bones rendered immobile through cold and fear. My eyes were wide, staring at the thing that still did not say anything, did not do anything. I tried to collect my thoughts but couldn't, couldn't stop the fear from overtaking my mind.

Suddenly the window rattled, as though the wind had increased and was battering against the glass. I turned to look, tearing my eyes away from that infernal creature just for a moment. When I looked back, the thing was right beside me, and all I could see was a pair of cold, dead eyes staring at me from under the hood. No face. Nothing. Just those eyes. Those eyes that delve into the depths of the thing's soul and revealed nothing but black, and horror, and despair.

I became overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness, of hopelessness and misery. It was a feeling that made me so wretched, so despondent, that it engulfed my terror and turned it into desolation. The creature beside me let out a wail, a sound so mournful, so pitiful that I wanted nothing more to get away, to leave this place that had caused such sadness, such terror. The wail continued, getting louder and louder until I could take it no longer. I crawled to the other side of the bed, using all of my strength to fight the oppressive weight of sadness that had pinned me in place. There I rolled heavily onto the floor. As I looked on in horror I watched as the figure, still wailing, glided over the bed, wanting to get at me. The window was within reach; I stood up, and punched the glass with a balled fist, unconcerned when the glass shattered and shards stuck in my hand. I turned around, seeing those empty eyes, watching as the figure reached out a clawed hand, grasping at me, trying to stop me leaving.

Terrified, with no hope of being saved, I leapt out of the window, plunging to the ground below. As I began to slip into unconsciousness, my limbs mangled and broken, I am sure I caught a glimpse of something looking down at me from the window, teeth glinting the moonlight as it howled with laughter.

After that, the pain that wracked my body took over all of my senses, and I saw nothing at all.


End file.
